


ripped apart, past to future

by juryrouge



Series: an unkindness [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon Universe, Falbarry, Fifth Laboratory, M/M, Sensual Chopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25431052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juryrouge/pseuds/juryrouge
Summary: Looking back, there were many things Barry didn't want to remember about the Fifth Laboratory.
Relationships: Barry the Chopper/Vato Falman
Series: an unkindness [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582072
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	ripped apart, past to future

**Author's Note:**

> finally, i have crawled out of the void to bring yall the third installment of falbarry. thank you to my lovely betas, anyamorozova and arianeige, for their continued support and kindness. please enjoy!! any kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. 
> 
> -jury

_Number 66._

Why? Oh, why was Barry thinking about that now?

The Fifth Laboratory was located on the outskirts of Central City. Its darkened walls loomed above the surrounding area of the facility, razor wire knotted and lining the boundary; closer towards the center, dim lights flickered high in the cracked hallways, bathing the laboratory in a sickening yellow. Though the outside of the building appeared disarrayed in its abandonment, the inside beated with the thrum of life. 

In the laboratory’s heart were scientists. And there were criminals. And there were floors stained pink with blood.

Barry’s arrest and capture were a blur to him. The military police, their eyes bright with wonderful contempt, took his cleaver from him, threw him to the ground, and locked him away in a dirty prison cell. He spent days -- or maybe weeks -- there, waiting in the darkness, boredom wracking his mind, his music lulling his senses. But he remembered his daunting sentence to death row with startling clarity.

His days in Central Prison were slowly coming towards their inevitable end. Barry was set to be hanged and then, the only part of his life that would live on would be his infamy -- the legend of the fiend. The devastating, murderous plague that swept through the city. _How boring,_ Barry thought, _how boring it is to be hanged._ At least he gave his victims an interesting end, making their deaths the most fascinating thing about their unfortunate lives. How amusing.

They put a rope, achingly tight, around his neck, and instead of being greeted by the gallows, the Fifth Laboratory gave him a bone-chilling welcome, a crueler fate awaiting him. Barry’s new prison was now a cage and his new guards were researchers -- they looked at him as though he were fodder. Their smiles were cold, but their eyes were colder. Barry remembered the first of his own victims and wondered of the look he had on his face. His lips twisted. At least he was genuine. 

During the day, the scientists would take him and the other prisoners out of their chained boxes. They would use small, precision instruments and metal tables with bindings to hold the test subjects down. Barry thought his cleaver -- sharp and oh, so pretty -- would be much more efficient; the screams of his victims sounded much better than the pathetic men that would wail beside him. And at night, when the sunken sun was hidden below the horizon, the only company Barry had were the mice scurrying around his cage. They clawed at the rusted bars and squeaked as they nipped at his feet, rot hanging from their teeth. 

Most of the prisoners were dragged from their cages, screams echoing through the laboratory before they surrendered to wretched sobs. Barry would fall asleep to those sounds, nothing like his wonderful music, but still a beautiful tune. When he awoke, their cages would be empty and soon after, a new test subject would take their place. 

One day, Barry did not return to his cage. 

He was ripped apart, his body frozen and his soul on fire, and he was thrust into a new cage -- a suit of armor. The only thing left from his past, a sign that he used to be human, was the blood seal painted harshly onto the plate of his armored neck. And it wasn’t even his own blood. 

“Number 66,” the scientists called him. “You are Number 66.”

Them and their leaders gave Barry back his cleaver and forced him to be a guard, spending the rest of his miserable existence walking around the perimeter of the Fifth Laboratory. He would soak in the moonlight till the sun rose, his new body still awake without rest. And even with the presence of the Slicer Brothers, Barry the Chopper had never felt more alone. There was no one to chop up and no screams to hear and no limbs to detach. It wasn’t exactly Barry’s style, but he wanted to blow the building up till it was nothing but ashes on the ground. 

His flesh and blood body was probably lying in some makeshift tomb.

This was worse than simply being a test subject.

_Something horrible has happened here. The researchers have vanished, but the chains around Barry’s throat have never been tighter and his cage has never been smaller. There is a silence that echoes. A ghost-quiet whisper. And there is a pressure that is deafening -- it howls of bloodlust. It roars of malice. It whimpers of hunger._

_There is something lurking in the darkness._

_It is as patient as it is malevolent. Barry chokes on his breath, his heart pounding against his ribs as though it wants to escape. He feels an instinct burning inside of him. The feeling starts in his chest and thrums in his veins. The feeling eats away at his senses until he is left with one thought. It is ruby red._

_There is a wickedness. One that consumes everything it touches._

_The feeling hammers away at the back on his skull. The feeling chants a melody of cacophony. Barry needs to find his-_

As Barry’s vision began to fade, the edges of his view darkening till there was nothing left, his mind caught up with him. And then, he snapped. The nightmare fell away as he remembered that he could no longer sleep. The thawing, physical pain that was thrumming through his body ended as he remembered that he wasn’t in possession of nerves. His ragged, broken breaths ceased as he remembered that he didn’t have lungs anymore. Silence reigned. 

“Is everything alright?” Falman asked, his voice rough and groggy, thick with the sound of sleep. It was enough to startle Barry out of his thoughts. _Are you alright,_ went unsaid. 

Barry cackled, but the music sounded sharp and pointed -- off-key. “Of course! Dontcha worry your pretty little head.” He didn’t need to worry the man with the flashes back to the Fifth Laboratory he would sometimes get. He didn’t need any pity. And he certainly didn’t need to talk.

Falman shrugged, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hand. His movements were sluggish and his hair was messy, matted down on one side and unruly on the other. “It doesn’t sound alright.”

Barry’s armor clinked as he moved his arm to grab his cleaver. “Oh, Vato. Can I call you that?”

“No, you canno-”

“Is worrying the only interesting thing about you?”

Falman groaned in annoyance, but he seemed more awake now. “I am weary of your restlessness. After all, it is my job to keep my eye on you,” Falman responded, honesty dripping from his tongue. 

Barry cackled again. “You’re adorable,” he cooed, running the edge of his cleaver over his left glove. “I just miss choppin’ people up. Simple as that.” He missed that reminder. That reminder that he could still slash people to pieces. That he was still alive. Still _human._

He paused. “I’m sure you can find something else to pass the time,” Falman replied, squinting at him. He looked like he wanted to go back to sleep. How boring.

“I could chop you up.”

That got Falman to sit up. “Barry-”

“I could make it worth your while.”

“Barr-”

“A little bit of sensual chopping.”

Falman shook his head, running his hand through the knots of his hair, rustling it up even further. The rims of his eyes looked red. “Sensual chopping? What does that even mean?”

Barry held up his cleaver, tapping it against his iron helmet. “It means you’ll like it.” If Barry could, he would wink.

The soldier groaned softly and rubbed his forehead. “I’m going back to bed now,” Falman said, finally, his head meeting his overfluffled pillow. “Wake me up when the newspaper gets here.” He wrapped the blanket tightly around his body, snuggling into the creamy fabric. He looked so peaceful. That made Barry want to bother him even more. 

“You’re kiddin’ me, right? Then whattam I supposed to do?” Barry whined, slamming his cleaver against the table, lodging the instrument deep into the wood; moonlight reflected off of its edge. It was almost as pretty as one of his last kills -- the full moon glistened in a pool of growing blood, its glow dripping down on him. 

Falman shrugged and mumbled into his pillow. “I don’t know. Play chess with yourself.”

Maybe then, Barry would finally win a game. 

After a few minutes, Falman’s breathing slowed. The monotonous tick of the clock and the gentle buzz of night bugs became the only talking partners Barry had -- his familiar after midnight company. If Barry was being entirely honest, which didn’t usually happen, he did not mind being in a suit of armor. It made him strong and intimidating and when he wasn’t working as a puppet, he could still potentially chop people up. But being in this safe house with Falman made him rethink all of that. 

Barry imagined his perfect life. A perfect future. 

He would be free. Free from his prison and free to chop up anyone he chose to, commit to any lethal whim that crossed his mind -- the proof of his humanness. Barry could chop up _that pussy,_ Roy Mustang, if he wanted to. He could spend time in the presence of Riza Hawkeye and Maria Ross. He could spend more time with Falman. _Vato._ Being with the other man filled him with just as much giddiness as it did boredom. Perhaps, if Barry had a body, it would be less boring. He hadn’t given much thought to his original body -- his imperfectly, flawed human body -- but if being in it meant getting to feel the warmth of Falman’s skin, then maybe it was all worth it. 

Barry spent the rest of the night cutting unfortunately placed holes into Falman’s wardrobe.

The clock kept ticking. Eventually, the sun, lost in a haze of pinks and oranges, rose into the sky, hiding beneath a flurry of white clouds. When Falman awoke, he chastised him, but he didn’t seem too upset. Barry threw the morning newspaper at him and it smacked the officer in the face. 

“I can cook ya breakfast,” Barry said, the red glow of his eyes brightening.

Falman paused in his movement, almost like he was actually considering taking up the offer. He shook his head gently, before grabbing a sweater he left at the table and pulling it on. Since he was wearing a shirt already, it didn’t show off his nipples. Unfortunate. “I won’t be able to do my job if you poison me and I die.”

Barry gasped. “The audacity! Poisoning people isn’t my style. At all.”

“I still don’t trust you,” Falman replied. 

“You could try and get to know me then.”

Falman shook his head, a small smile gracing his face. “I do know you, Barry. I led your interrogation, remember? That’s why I don’t trust you.” He proceeded to cook himself breakfast as Barry pestered him. Then they both read the newspaper together; Barry was a slow reader, and at every page, he had to remind Falman not to turn the page just yet. And after that was a chess game. Then a second one. A third. Fourth. 

“So, honey, what are your thoughts on sensual chopping?”

Falman’s head whipped up, almost knocking half the chess pieces off the board in his hasty movement. “ _Honey?_ ” Falman repeated, his voice filled with concern -- probably for himself. “Also, the sensual chopping thing again?”

Barry knew that he was a sadist, he adored the screams of pain from his victims and the warmth of blood gushing between his fingertips as he chopped them up, but was he a sadist in the bedroom? He wasn’t a coward. Barry could admit that he hadn’t been with that many partners. He had more important things to think about -- like murder. Falman was probably a virgin.

“Say, Vato. Are you a masochist?” Barry asked, an insane giggle underneath the ease of his tone. “Well, you must be- considering you work for Mustang.”

“I’d like to argue against that,” Falman said, aghast.

“Don’t worry,” Barry cooed as he took in the man in front of him. “We have all the time in the world to argue.”

***

After an incredibly long day of traveling to Rush Valley and general shenanigans, Edward and Alphonse Elric were holed up in the automail shop, Atelier Garfiel. Edward was lying on a couch, his half-done, metal arm resting on his stomach and his other hand holding up a book. Alphonse, for the past hour, had been talking to Team Mustang in Central. Winry was tending to her other customers at the front of the shop. 

Though Edward was tuning it out, he heard some tidbits of the conversation his brother was having with Fuery. Edward wasn’t exactly the best at reporting to his superiors, so it was a good thing that Alphonse willingly did it from time to time. It didn’t seem like they were talking about anything important, but Alphonse looked really engaged. Eventually, he set the phone down and turned towards the older boy. 

“Brother, guess what I just heard!” Alphonse said, excitement dripping from his tone. Edward nodded for him to continue. “Well, I heard from Master Sergeant Fuery who heard from Lieutenant Hawkeye who heard from Second Lieutenant Havoc that Warrant Officer Falman and _Barry the Chopper_ are holed up in a safe house together… and they’re not hating it. Y’know?”

“Uh.” Edward was at a loss for words. “I mean- love is love, I guess.”


End file.
